


Ilium

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Prostitute John, Prostitution, Protective John, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Relationship(s), Self Confidence Issues, Sex, Topping from the Bottom, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John was injured and sent home, he found the only work he could do was the oldest profession. That was where Sherlock stumbled into his life. Now leaving that life behind may be the most difficult challenge yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John watched as the slender man came into the parlor. Dark tousled hair, pale eyes. A man like that sure didn’t need to pay for sex. But well, all kinds came in here. He looked around with eyes that seemed to take in everything. At least he was looking at more than just the men who worked here. The man met his eyes. John stopped breathing a moment, then put on his smile and moved closer. Probably kinky as hell if he was here. Either way, long as he paid, he’d do his best. And his best was damn good.

“Evening,” he said.

He looked John over in a way that felt like he was finding every fault and flaw. John stiffened his back and met the scrutiny. The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a soldier. Not home very long. But working here.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve all got reasons. Promise I can still make it worth your while. Name’s John.”

He shifted. “Sherlock.”

John didn’t touch his arm. He could tell the man wasn’t used to being touched. Quite possibly he was a virgin too. Instead he put a bit more warmth in his smile. “Come on upstairs.”

A couple heartbeats, then Sherlock nodded. “Very well.”

“Right up here.” John turned and led the way upstairs. His room was small and in the back. He didn’t make the place enough money for one of the bigger rooms. He opened the door and sat on the bed, watching him.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, looked at John, then peeked out of the door. “I’m not really here for you. Investigating a bit of unsavory business.”

John chuckled. “You’ll find all sorts of unsavory business here.”

The pale eyes went back to him. John shivered. Of course a man this gorgeous didn’t belong here. Sherlock pulled out a wallet and put a good sum on the dresser. “I do not actually require your services.”

Leaning back on his hands, John watched him. “Who are you looking for?”

“Tall man, long brown hair, predilection for purple ties.”

John shuddered for a different reason. “Yeah, I know him.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. “Client of yours?”

“Only once. Said I wouldn’t do a damn thing with the man after that.”

“Is that why they gave you the smallest room in the place?”

He blinked. “Not the only reason.”

Sherlocked looked him over again. “You are a bit old for the profession.”

John snorted. “I can still do the job. Come on, if they think I’m not working I’ll get it.”

“I would hardly want you to get in trouble.” Sherlock moved towards the bed. John reached up and cupped the taller man’s hips.

“If you want to catch him,” said John, breathed against the bulge in his pants. “He usually comes in on Thursday nights.” Sherlock’s cock twitched in his trousers. John placed a small kiss on the fabric.

“I will return then,” promised Sherlock. There was a moment of hesitation, then he carded a hand through John’s hair. It was the most gentle  touch he’d received in months. He leaned forward to mouth Sherlock through his pants, but the man moved away from him.

“I’ll let the management know you were most satisfactory. I’ll return on Thursday.”

John watched him go, wondering what on earth he was thinking. But there was something undeniably attractive about the man. And the man in the purple tie was an ass.

Three days later John was downstairs when Sherlock came in. He gave the man a nod and inclined his head upstairs.  Sherlock walked over. “You pleased me previously,” he said a bit loudly, running a hand down John’s arm. “More.”

“Of course, sir.” John managed not to roll his eyes.

They moved upstairs and he took him to his room. “The man you’re looking for is three doors down on the left. Armed, but if you go in about four minutes you should find him vulnerable.”

“You are risking quite a lot by helping me.” Sherlock watched his eyes.

John shrugged. “I’m barely allowed to stay on here.” He glanced at the clock. “Come on, let’s go.”

A small smile tweaked Sherlock’s face. “You have a grudge.”

“Against a lot of things. but you aren’t like most men who come here."

Sherlock watched him curiously. John stood up and went to the door, leading the way. Taking a breath he pushed the door open. Their target had his pants around his ankles, his rentboy tied to the bed with fear in his eyes. John’s blood boiled. He charged in, tackling the man to the ground. He struggled, surprised. John grabbed his head and bashed it hard against the foot of the bed with a sickening sound. He went limp.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice somehow broke through. John stood up and stepped back. The man wasn’t dead. There were footsteps in the hall.

“Watson!” He heard the owner’s voice.

“I quit,” he growled, stomping past Sherlock and the others crowding into the hall. He only grabbed his coat on his way out. Of course it was raining. He turned up his collar and walked away as fast as he could.

No idea what he’d do now. There was no place to go and he’d never afford his own flat. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Cold stabbed his lungs. At least he had enough for a night somewhere cheap. Maybe even a couple days if he could make the right kind of deal.

“John.” He was surprised to hear Sherlock’s voice.

“You got your man,” John didn’t dare look up at his face. He wanted to remember the pale eyes when they didn’t have pity in them.

“You put yourself and your job on the line for me.” Sherlock sounded confused.

John shrugged. “I’m nothing important.”

“I do not believe that to be the case, Doctor Watson.”

John flinched and turned his back on him. “Don’t call me that.” He flexed his hand in his coat pocket. “And how the hell did you know I used to be a doctor?”

“Your hands,” Sherlock’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You were injured and invalided home, but unable to take up a medical career again.”

“Yeah, well, now i’m just an old whore, as you helpfully pointed out. It got me through uni, only other thing I knew I could do.” John’s voice was bitter and brittle.

“I could use a man like you to assist me.”

John laughed mirthlessly, but Sherlock didn’t make a sound. Biting his lip, he turned and looked up at the man. The eyes were interested. “Are you offering me a job? A proper job?”

“In my line of work it would not hurt to have someone with medical training by my side, nor a brave man.”

John shook his head and started to walk away. “You’ve got the wrong one.”

“Please,” Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

Closing his eyes a long moment, John turned around again. “So what, you’ll pay me to follow you around London?”

“More or less,” shrugged Sherlock. “Perhaps we can find other work for you as well, I do have a number of contacts, and I suspect you’re the sort of man who would like to have a, how do they phrase it, ‘a day job’?

“You’re impossible,” said John.

“I have been told similar things before. Though usually they use different words.”

John could well imagine. He’d heard words like that most of his own life. Making a decision, he walked over, reached up to cup Sherlock’s face, and drew him down for a slow tender kiss. He was awful at showing gratitude, but perhaps this observant man could read between the lines.

Sherlock moaned softly against him, hands coming to rest on John’s hips. “I have never…” he started.

“Well I have,” he said with a small smile. But a true one, for the first time in a long time.

“We’ll catch a cab.”

“At this hour?”

“I am very good at locating cabs.”

True to his word they quickly found a cab. John leaned back and watched Sherlock. This was mad, really. But everything he owned was on his back, so what did he have to lose? The place certainly looked nicer than anything he’d been in for a while, at least from the outside. They headed up the stairs, John ignoring the twinge in his knee.

The flat was messy, lived in. Sherlock swept off his coat and scarf, hanging it up near the door. John carefully pulled off his own coat and was surprised to find Sherlock there, helping him, being mindful of his shoulder before leaning down and taking a cautious kiss.

John smiled against his lips and ran his hands down his chest. Sherlock moaned and leaned against the wall, seemingly content to let John take the lead, already panting at the touches through his shirt. He really had never, judging by his reactions.

“Just relax. I’m going to take good care of you,” promised John, meaning every word as he worried Sherlock’s bottom lip in his mouth.

The man groaned and squeezed John’s shoulders. Turning slightly, John ground his hip against his erection. There was a gasp and Sherlock came right there in his trousers.

“It’s fine,” murmured John, kissing his neck. “We have all night.”

“John,” said Sherlock softly.

“Bedroom down here?” asked John, taking his hand and tugging him down the hall. He gently undressed the man. Naked he was even more beautiful in the light from the street.

Sherlock cupped John’s face and drew him down for a kiss. “I want to see you as well.”

John hesitated. Licking his lips, he tugged his shirt over his head and dropped his trousers and pants.

“Someone hurt you,” said Sherlock, sitting up and taking note of a fading bruise under his ribs.

With a shrug, John climbed into the bed. “Comes with the territory.”

“Not any more.” There was fierceness in Sherlock’s tone. Something fluttered in John’s heart.

“You’re mad,” said John tenderly. “And you say you want a doctor and an assistant, which means the odds are we could both get hurt.”

“Well, that’s different,” sniffed Sherlock. “And you won’t be alone.”

“Neither will you.” John kissed him.

Sherlock ran his hands down John’s arms. “It will take some time before you’re back up,” said John.

“What about you?” his slender fingers stroked John’s hip, making him shiver. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him with anything other than hasty need or violence. Sherlock watched his face as his long fingers wrapped around his cock.

“That’s good,” breathed John. Sherlock gently laid him back on the bed, leaning down to kiss his chest. His free hand found the scar on his shoulder and John started, jerking away from his touch.

“Does it hurt you?”

“Not anymore.” John reached up and carded a hand through his hair.

“But it reminds you of what you lost.”

John smiled. “You always speak  your mind don’t you. All scars are reminders. I very nearly died, you know.” He looked away. “Sometimes I wish it had finished the job. But then I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Fate is a bit of an abstract concept. I prefer to work in solid realities.”

“Well, I’m really in your bed.” John turned and kissed him again, running his hands down Sherlock’s body. “And I’ll be here as long as you want.”

“It does rather feel like you belong here.” He ran his hands through John’s hair.

John smiled at him. “I felt that from the moment I saw you.” He flipped them so Sherlock was on his back, tenderly kissing down his chest, mouth and fingers drawing out the pleasure. He moaned underneath him, relaxing under his expert hands. This John knew, exactly how to play a man’s body. This was why he’d been kept on despite his age and injury. Before long Sherlock was hard again, writhing  against the bed.

John planted a kiss on the head of his cock, then dug in the side drawer for a bottle of lube and a condom. He quickly prepared himself and straddled Sherlock’s hips, lowering himself on his cock.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned and squeezed his hips, rocking up into him.

“I’ve got you,” promised John, reaching down to stroke himself.

Sherlock’s pale eyes opened as he watched him. “You’re a beautiful man.”

John leaned down and kissed him. “I’m not. You are. Come for me.”

There was a groan and Sherlock came for the second time.John watched his face, coming at the site of the slender man coming undone before him.

Sherlock reached up and pulled him down against his chest, drawing the blankets over them both. “You are mine, John,” he whispered in his ear.

“Yours,” answered John, feeling safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plotbunny is entirely tallenough's fault. And letalkingmime for enouraging me. Then feverpitchfiasco for encouraging me to make it longer. We'll see how this one goes...


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, John woke to hear raised voices in the front room.

"You've taken up with a rent boy?" The voice was unfamiliar, posh and pretentious. John could just imagine the sneer.

"His name is John Watson. He used to be a doctor and a soldier."

"But for nearly the past year he's been a whore. Has he been tested? Have you?"

John tensed, hearing Sherlock’s pacing footsteps.

"That's part of what I intended to use the money for. We've been careful."

"Sherlock, I have carefully minded your trust fund for many years, including lengthy periods of time when you didn't even care about it. I'm not going to let you waste it on your whore any more than the drugs."

"Will you stop calling him a whore? He quit that work to help me with mine and he's already proved to be more than capable."

"How does Mrs. Hudson feel about this?"

"She says that John makes a fine cuppa."

There was a moment of silence. “He’s awake and listening. Here's the cheque. For God’s sake at least get you both tested. That should get him some clothes from a charity shop."

The door opened and closed. John walked into the living room, a bit uncertain. Sherlock handed him a cup of tea. "I know you heard every word. My brother is very protective of me."

John shrugged. "He's sounds like just the sort of posh git that rents someone every other weekend because he doesn't have time to have real relationships."

Sherlock inclined his head. “Perhaps so. Let’s go deposit this before Mycroft puts a stop on it.”

“I’ll just get dressed.” He drained the tea and went back into the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had given him a couple of jumpers. Part of him bristled at taking charity, but he was determined to pay Sherlock back for every bit. If not on a case then at least in the bedroom. Certainly there hadn’t been any complaints there.

They went to the clinic first. John was fairly certain he was clean, that was one thing the boss insisted on, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. And the last thing he wanted was to see Sherlock hurt. It would take a few days for the results, so they went to a charity shop for clothes. Sherlock tried to argue they could afford better, but John didn’t want him to waste his money.

Finally they ended up at Angelo’s for lunch, bags by their feet. John curled one arm around his plate as he ate quickly, aware Sherlock watched him. Since it seemed Sherlock hardly ordered anything for himself, John scooped up a fork full and fed it to the man, watching the way his lips slipped around the pasta.

Reaching over. Sherlock took John’s free hand and moved it so the arm wasn’t curled so tightly. John took a breath and gathered another forkful and fed it to Sherlock too. “You need to eat as well,” said Sherlock softly, picking up his own fork and feeding John a bite.

John accepted it, meeting his eyes. The moment was shattered by a buzzing phone. Sherlock absently fed John another bite as he picked it up and read it. “Lestrade has a case.”

“Who’s Lestrade?”

“Deputy Inspector.” He saw the way John froze a bit. “Don’t worry, you’ll get along fine. A good sight better than with my brother, I assure you. He can wait until you’re done.”

Swallowing, John focused on finishing his plate as quickly as possible. Sherlock reached over and squeezed his hand. He slowed down, just a bit, then took a big drink and put on a smile. “Okay, let’s go.”

They swung by the flat to deposit the clothes, but before long they were walking into a cavernous warehouse. The place was crawling with cops, of course. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself and walked in Sherlock’s shadow. “What do you have there, freak?”

“Donovan, this is John Watson, he’s helping me.”

She looked him up and down suspiciously.

“He’s far more trustworthy than the man you picked up last night at the bar.”

She sputtered a bit, but Sherlock was already sweeping past. John saw a gray haired man standing next to a rather severely battered body. He looked at Sherlock, glanced at John, then back down at the body. “What do you make of it?”

Sherlock snapped on gloves and crouched next to the body. “Come take a look,” he said, glancing up at Lestrade. “John’s been a doctor and a soldier.”

Lestrade shrugged and handed John a pair of gloves. “I’m already taking enough risk letting you in here, if he’s helping they can hardly fire me twice. DI Lestrade, since he didn’t introduce us.”

“John Watson.” He looked over and saw Sherlock manipulating the body carefully.

After a moment he stood. “This man worked in a call center. Drug deal gone very wrong.”

John blinked. “How can you know that?”

“Look at his hair. Indent in his style from wearing a headset constantly. And his hands are used to keyboard work.”

John gaped at him. “That’s brilliant.”

A tiny smile tweaked Sherlock’s face. Lestrade looked them both over. “So who did it? The dealer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, this man was the dealer.” He stood and peeled off his gloves. “What was the murder weapon, John?”

John looked at the man’s face, then around the room. “Heavy pipe would be my guess.”

Lestrade nodded. “And we found one just outside. So we’re looking for a man then?”

“No, a woman. I’ll be in touch.” He swept out of the room, making John hurry to catch up.

The rest of the afternoon was spent hunting around London. John was fascinated by this man, couldn’t help but see his utter disregard for danger, all the more so when he nearly got his head taken off by a protective brother. The big man had hardly expected John to be a threat, but that was before he ended up his knees, arm twisted behind his back and a knee in his kidney. “Look I think I know where she’s stayin’,” he finally admitted, giving them the address.

On their way out John saw Sherlock hand some money to a homeless person, but he was even more surprised when another homeless person handed over a package just outside their new location. Sherlock gave it to him and John found a gun. “Jesus, Sherlock, is this thing legal?”

“You’re a soldier. You’re well experienced with firearms.” Feeling it in his hands, John thought about the gun he’d sold. It was one of the last things he’d done before calling in the favor. This one was very similar and the detective was right, he was quite familiar with it. Slipping it into the back of his pants he gestured for Sherlock to lead on.

They found the woman just as London started to turn dark. She was scared and strung out and clearly not in her right mind. John managed to talk her into getting into a cab and they deposited her at the station. He felt Sherlock watching him as she was taken into custody.

“You simply convinced her to give up,” there was a hint of wonder in Sherlock’s voice.

John shrugged. “She wasn’t a career criminal or murderer.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more, but he kept his silence as they headed back to the flat. Mrs. Hudson heard them on the stairs and brought up some supper. John kept both hands on the table, but didn’t curl so tightly around his plate as Mrs. Hudson chattered about her day while Sherlock barely pretended to listen. Afterward he washed the dishes while Sherlock flitted at the table with an experiment. Smiling, John finished and fixed himself a cuppa before setting in front of the telly. He already knew his flatmate would probably be experimenting the rest of the evening.

He woke with a start sometime later. The flat was dark save the light in the kitchen. The telly had been turned off. Stretching and rubbing his shoulder, he stood and walked over to check on Sherlock. He was leaning over his microscope, looking for all the world like the very picture of a mad scientist.

Shaking his head, John went off to bed, carefully putting the clothes away without disturbing any of Sherlock’s things and crawling between the soft sheets. He sighed and curled up on his side on the edge of the bed, hands tucked under his cheek.

After a while he woke again as the bed dipped behind him. Sherlock spooned around him, knees tucked up behind his own and a soft kiss to his cheek. John made a contented sound as his hand rested on his hip and slipped asleep again.

The next time he woke violently, thrashing and hitting flesh hard enough to make the aggrieved party grunt. With growing horror he realized he’d punched Sherlock. Rolling out of bed, he scrambled for his clothes, heart still thudding in his ears as he felt for the material in the dark.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and calm, reaching him despite his terror.

“I hit you,” mumbled John, finally laying a hand on his shirt.

The sound of shifting sheets and then Sherlock was behind him, wrapping long arms around John and pinning his arms to his side so he couldn’t escape. “You were having a nightmare.”

“It happens a lot,” admitted John, breath finally slowing. “Surprised it took this long.” He let Sherlock tug him back to bed.

“What happens when you are unconscious is hardly intentional.” Sherlock leaned down to kiss his wounded shoulder.

John sagged his arms and sighed. “What did I do to deserve you?”

Sherlock kissed his neck. “I could ask the same question.”

John turned in his arms and kissed him gently on the lips. “Where did I hit you?”

“Here,” Sherlock put his hand on a spot just under his ribs. John carefully felt the spot with his fingers, not wanting to turn on a light. It would probably leave a bruise. “You’re a good doctor,” said Sherlock, watching him.

“I was,” John’s voice was quiet in the darkness.

“I highly doubt you’ve forgotten everything.”

“Just leave it,” John scooted back from him and ran a hand through his hair before drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

Sherlock cupped his cheeks and kissed him. Moaning softly, John unfolded, leaning back on his hands and dropping his legs. Sherlock slid between his thighs, calming the ache in his heart with warm tongue and cool fingers.

John lay back on the bed and the cool hands moved down his chest. His eyes closed, trusting, as Sherlock lifted the band of his pants and slid them off. He kept them closed as hands ghosted along his hips, drawing prickles of goosebumps as his cock stirred with interest. A warm kiss graced his sternum as thumbs traced his pelvic bones, as if far more interested in the parts that made up John Watson then in the pleasure he could offer.

John started to reach for him, but Sherlock suddenly grabbed the blanket and tugged it over them both, tucking John against his chest. Blinking, John breathed against his heart. "Don't you want to fuck me?"

"Right now I don't think that's necessary. Did you wish to talk about your dream?"

Tears stung John's eyes. How long had it been since anyone had asked after him and what he was feeling? "I doubt anything will help," he said softly. One of Sherlock's hands started stroking down his back, relaxing him.

"You do not have to leave. I find I rather enjoy your company and am quite willing to take my chances on your nightmares."

John closed his eyes. He was here, in Sherlock's arms. The man was undoubtedly mad, but that was fine, their madness could work together.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke early. Sherlock had rolled onto his back, looking peaceful in the early morning light. One arm was thrown over his head, the other possessively across John's body. Leaning in, John's lips brushed the fine column of neck. He moaned softly. Carefully extricating himself, John got out of bed and took the lube from the bedside table. He started prepping himself, hand moving mechanically as his fingers stretched, admiring the long, pale lines of his lover’s body. A bruise did lay dark under his ribs. Guilt wormed in his gut. Well he'd make the man feel very good.

Kneeling on the bed, John kissed his hip, tongue teasing the flesh just above the band of his pants. Sherlock shifted, one hand resting in John's hair. He moved to his cock and mouthed it through the thin material. After a few moments he tugged the pants down, applying his considerable experience to Sherlock's cock and wringing out cries of pleasure.

"John," Sherlock gasped. He pulled off with a pop. Sherlock reached for the lube, frowning when he realized it had been moved

"I already prepped myself," said John quickly.

His features softened. "Why?"

John blushed as if he were a student asked a simple question he didn't know the answer to. Sherlock cupped his cheek and kissed him. "Your pleasure is important to me."

Turning away, John fidgeted with the sheets. Sherlock pulled him to the headboard and turned him so he was in his lap, facing out. "Close your eyes." The deep voice was soothing and John obeyed, relaxing against his chest.

Sherlock carefully entered him, moving slowly until John was fully seated and moaning slightly at the fullness. Sherlock smoothed a hand down his chest and kissed his injured shoulder. He took John's cock in hand and started stroking, rocking up into him with shallow thrusts. His other arm wrapped around his stomach to hold him in place.

John moved his hips, worried Sherlock was giving him too much. The man thrust harder and twisted the hand on his cock. He bit his lip to keep from making too much noise. Sherlock reached up and tugged his lip free. "I enjoy hearing you," he purred in John's ear, making him grind down against him as the voice vibrated inside as if harmonizing with his very atoms. Sherlock shifted him and he cried out as his prostate was struck.

"Let go," whispered Sherlock, thrusting up again, pleasure arcing down his nerves. With panting breath he felt his orgasm coil and shouted his release, leaving him helpless in his lover’s arms. But there was no fear here.

Sherlock eased him off his lap. John turned to him with panic in his voice. "What about you?"

Kissing him, Sherlock smoothed his hands down his arms. "I am fine. I have never had a particularly robust sex drive." John blinked at him. Smile twitching his lips, the detective got up and out of bed. "I'll make breakfast while you take your shower."

John rubbed his hands across his scruffy cheeks as he went into the bathroom. He started the shower, careful not to use too much hot water, and shaved quickly. Stepping under the water he ignored the various body washes and hair products and scrubbed himself top to bottom with the bar of soap. He shut off the water, toweled off and dressed. Making his way into the kitchen he found Sherlock distracted by something in his latest experiment, eggs on the counter and the fridge half-open

Smiling, John got the kettle going and set about making a proper breakfast. There was only enough jam for two pieces of toast, so he put them on Sherlock's plate and set it by his elbow.

"John," Sherlock carried his plate to the table. He put one of the toast on John's plate and took one without jam. "We're partners in all of this."

Shifting uncomfortably, John picked at his eggs. Sherlock squeezed his hand. "After you eat why not do the shopping?" He was already pulling out his wallet. "Take my card. If I need you I'll text."

"I don't have a mobile." John was starting to wish the floor would swallow him.

Sherlock regarded him a moment, then pulled out his phone and sent a message. "I'm having one delivered. It'll be here shortly. You should eat."

Instead John stood, gathering anger like a shield. "I can't keep accepting your charity," he spat. “I've got nothing to offer you outside the bedroom."

"Don't be foolish, of course you do." John opened his mouth but Sherlock cut him off. "You're a doctor and a soldier." John started to interrupt; Sherlock raised his voice. "And even if you haven't used either of those skills in the past year you still have them. You are by no means useless, John Watson!"

John stared up at him, hands bunched into fists, stance wide as if expecting a brawl. His chest heaved like he'd just run a mile. Sherlock stared right back into his eyes.

Grabbing the card, John turned and marched out, barely remembering to grab his jacket. By the time he reached Tesco's he'd calmed down enough to make sure he bought carefully, getting things that were cheap but would last and could stretch. It started to drizzle on his way back to the flat.

Pushing open the door he found the place empty. A mobile sat on the table, but he ignored it until the groceries were put away.  Picking it up, he found an address. Probably where Sherlock wanted to meet him. Stuffing the phone in his pocket he headed out to look for a cab.

The phone beeped in his pocket as he stepped outside. He pulled it out to read the message. _Please get in the car._ John frowned, but a sleek black car pulled up in front of him. The door opened and he ducked his head to see a beautiful woman texting on a mobile. Taking a breath he got in, wondering what this was all about. The woman ignored him as they drove and the windows were too dark to tell where they were going.

They finally stopped and his door opened again. He got out and found a man leaning on an umbrella. "John Watson."

He recognized the voice. "Sherlock's brother." He shifted his stance as if expecting another fight.

"I only wish to determine what your intentions are in regards to Sherlock."

"Intention? I don't have any intentions."

Mycroft gave an insincere smile. "Please. A man in your previous position...are you supplying him with drugs as well as sex?"

John stepped forward, crowding his space. “Listen you pretentious git, what I am or am not to your brother is none of your damned concern.”

Mycroft didn’t step back. “It is very much my concern.” His voice took on a cold chill that would quail lesser men. John didn’t blink.

The phone beeped in his pocket. John stayed where he was, pulled it out and looked at it. _Where are you? -SH_

 _Your brother,_ answered John.

_Give him the phone. - SH_

“It’s for you.” John handed it over as it beeped again.

There were a few long moments of back and forth typing. John stood at attention, waiting patiently, eyes fixed just over Mycroft’s shoulder as if waiting for an unpleasant order. Finally Mycroft handed the mobile back. “I will take you to him. But I am watching you very closely.”

John smiled slightly. “I bet you do like to watch.”

The car door opened behind him. John turned on his heel and got in. The assistant continued to ignore him. Looking at his mobile he saw the messages had been erased.

He was dropped off near a block of flats. It wasn’t hard to find the police. The same woman from before rolled her eyes and gestured him inside.

Sherlock was crouched next to a body, Lestrade hovering over him. Lestrade moved so John could come next to Sherlock. The Inspector touched his arm. “Mycroft’s a prat, but he means well.”

“He’s an arsehole.” John crouched down. He could only assume Sherlock had mentioned the reason for his delay. With a shiver he wondered what else he’d been told.

“What do you make of the tattoos?” asked Sherlock, lifting the victim’s sleeve.

“Army,” said John automatically. The detective gave him a look. “This tattoo here, though, looks like a gang?”

“Yes, but it was applied after death.” He stood. “We’ll be in touch, Inspector.”

Lestrade nodded and closed his notebook. John kept his silence as Sherlock summoned a cab. Instead of going home he had them deposited in front of a restaurant. “You barely touched your breakfast.” John muttered and handed back his card.

They were led to a quiet booth in the back. Sherlock made a point to order his own food and when John tried to order the cheapest thing on the menu, he interrupted and ordered something more substantial. John glared, but drank his water.

Sherlock broke the bread on the table and handed half to him. “This was the third similar killing. There must be something connecting the three victims.”

John thought. “If they were all Afghanistan vets, could be drug related. Opium or heroin. Tattoos maybe to fool the police into thinking its gang related?”

“Interesting,” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.

John shrugged and ate his bread. “Drugs are a profitable crop over there, wouldn’t be that hard to get into the trade.” He watched Sherlock. “Your brother asked if I was supplying you drugs.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gave no other response, so John didn’t push.

They got home late in the afternoon. Sherlock planted himself on the couch, deep in thought. Uncertain what else to do, John worked on tidying the flat, careful to leave Sherlock’s experiments alone.

“You should go talk to Lestrade,” said Sherlock as it turned dark. John was curled up in his chair with a four-month old medical journal he’d found in a stack of papers.

“Why?”

“You’re curious about my history with drugs. Lestrade could explain better than I. And I can hear your heartbeat and it’s distracting. He’s at the pub.”

“All right,” John got up and stretched. Sherlock lapsed back into silence as he got his jacket. Going down the stairs the phone beeped with directions.

Lestrade was sitting alone at a table nursing a pint when John walked in. He smiled and ordered a second one as he saw John. “He chase you out?”

“More or less,” shrugged John. “Apparently my heartbeat was bothering his thinking.”

Lestrade gave him a look as the waitress brought his drink. “He’ll crack it eventually.”

“He’s thinking it might have something to do with the Afghanistan drug trade.”

“You mean you do.”

John blinked and blushed a bit, sipping his drink. Lestrade gave him an easy smile and leaned back. “You might be right. I looked up your file. Don’t worry,” he said quickly as John’s head shot up. “Sherlock was a junkie when I met him. I’ve seen a lot of good people in bad situations.”

Letting out a breath, John looked at him. “Inspector…”

“Off duty. Greg.”

“Greg. Thank you. He said I should ask you about his history with the drugs.”

Lestrade took another drink. “Met him about five years ago at a murder scene. Even hopped up worse than a caffeinated squirrel he could see things we didn’t. Told him he had to get clean or he couldn’t help. Took some effort, but he did it. And here we are.”

“You’re a good man.”

Lestrade leaned forward. “So are you. He’s more focused with you around. Don’t let Mycroft mess this up. He’ll come ‘round eventually.”

John nodded and relaxed. The conversation turned to other things and John felt himself at ease, glad for the company and the offer of friendship without strings.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks again to feverpitchfiasco for being a sounding board.


	4. Chapter 4

The next evening John found himself chasing Sherlock as Sherlock chased a criminal. The pair vanished around a corner. John pulled the gun from his back as he heard raised voices. As he came around the corner there was a grunt. He saw the man had Sherlock doubled over, hands on his shoulders as he brought a knee up.

Holstering the gun, John ran in and hauled man back, sweeping his feet and pulling the gun again as he landed on his back. “Don’t move,” he ordered steadily as he aimed at the man’s chest. He heard Sherlock straighten but didn’t glance away.

“You’re not very high up,” said Sherlock. “If you help us, I might be persuaded not to call the police.”

He glanced at Sherlock, then back down the barrel of John’s gun.

“Or I could just let him shoot you,” Sherlock’s tone was conversational.

He swallowed hard. “I know the address. They’ll be there tonight.” Still staring at the gun he rattled off the address. “Eleven.”

“Take him out.”

The man’s eyes went wide, but instead of pulling the trigger, John flipped the gun around and hit him with it, knocking him clean out. Bending over, he dragged the man behind a dumpster before turning and looking at Sherlock. His lip was split and he was holding his side.

“Come on, we’ve got time before this meeting,” said John. “Let’s get you back to the flat and take a look at you.”

They managed to find a cab. They were both silent until they were back in the safety of the flat. “There’s a medical kit in the bedroom,” said Sherlock, gingerly sitting on the couch.

“Take your shirt off, I’ll get it.” John found it on top of the dresser and was surprised to find it was a full and complete kit. His hands knew what they were doing as he picked out an antiseptic wipe and sat down on the coffee table. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and wiped his lip. “Not that bad, actually, it’ll heal on it’s own well enough. Now, which side hurts?”

Sherlock touched it and John carefully examined it, noticing the bruise from the nightmare was just starting to fade. “Well hard to tell without an x-ray, but you probably just bruised it. So overall, you were lucky.”

“Not luck, skill.” Sherlock grabbed his wrist, making John meet his eyes. “Skill, like you still have.”

John waved the wipe and looked away. “That’s not hardly skill, anyone could do that much.” He tugged away from his grip and went to turn the kettle on. “We’ve got a couple hours yet, are you going to text Lestrade?”

Instead he turned around from the kettle to find Sherlock in his space, looking intently down at him. “You need to rest or else you won’t be in any shape for taking out drug lords tonight.”

Sherlock placed one finger under John’s chin and tilted his head up. Leaning down he kissed him gently. John could taste the blood and antiseptic as he pulled away. “You’re a good doctor, I should listen to your orders.”

John watched him go. He sighed, wiped his mouth, and started tidying the flat as he drank his tea, making sure the medical kit was somewhere handy. Running out of things to tidy, he found another old medical journal and curled up on the couch to wait with a fresh cup of tea.

He was making a light dinner when Sherlock came into the kitchen. He walked up behind John and wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his head on John’s shoulder. It felt just like he belonged there. John flipped the food. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I don’t normally eat when I am on a case, however for you I will make an exception.”

John wondered just how many exceptions to his routine he would make for him and bit his lip, feeling guilty again. “Just something light, since we might be chasing people again.”

“You know, you did stop him from hurting me worse.”

Shrugging, John plated the food. “It was the right thing to do.”

They ate silently, Sherlock working with one hand on the laptop. John started to gather up the dishes, but Sherlock took them from him and carried them to the sink. “We’ll be leaving in a minute. I’ll take care of them.”

Nodding, John checked his gun and grabbed his jacket. Sherlock texted as they went down the stairs. “Lestrade should be meeting us soon after we get there.”

They stopped a few blocks away. John watched as Sherlock pulled a few things out of his pocket. He tugged his arm out of his jacket and pushed up his sleeve, making some marks. “Do you trust me?”

He blinked. “What? Yes, of course I do.”

Sherlock messed up his hair and quickly applied some makeup to John’s face, then his own. He dragged his hand along the bricks to scratch it and slouched in a way that he barely looked like Sherlock at all. “Come along.”

Confused and uncertain, John followed him down the alley. They entered a pub and someone put a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Oi, only if you’re invited.”

Sherlock rubbed his arm. “Ricky said to bring some...entertainment.”

The man scoffed before cupping Sherlock’s chin. “You’re pretty enough I suppose. Hope he’s got some talent.”

John knew this was an act; that he could do. He touched the man’s hip. “I could show you.”

“Oh no, if it’s Ricky he’ll want you all to himself.” He looked at Sherlock. “Guess you’ll be wanting a hit for delivery.”

“Oh if it pleases you.” He rubbed his arm again.

The man sniffed his hair and dropped a packet in his pocket. “Go on then.”

They went into a back room. A card game was going on around one table. Some other men sat around talking. One of the men noticed John. “Hey, aren’t you one of Winston’s whores?”

It was far too easy to step back into this role. John gave him a seductive smile. “I am, sir.”

Sherlock’s hand was suddenly on his arm, tense. John gave him a smile and moved towards the man. There were a few women here too. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, not quite breaking the role.  He turned and gave him a look, trusting him to do what he’d originally planned on as the man took his arm and tugged him into his lap. “I’m Ricky.”

He leaned in to kiss Ricky, hoping Sherlock would get on with it. He squeezed his thigh and John went to that place in his mind where he didn’t have to think too hard about what was going on with his body.

Suddenly he found himself on the floor. Ricky was shoving Sherlock back and all pretense of the addict was gone. Before John could get to his feet there were shouts of police and most of the men were scattering. Lestrade grabbed Ricky, who was now trying to grapple with Sherlock, and pinned his arms behind his back. Donovan offered him a hand up, raising an eyebrow at whatever makeup Sherlock had put on him.

Lestrade checked the man’s pockets and came up with a packet. “You’re under arrest,” he said putting the cuffs on him.

He looked back at John. “You got this whore working for you?”

There was a dull thud as the man bounced off the nearest table. “Oops, you slipped,” said Lestrade through gritted teeth. “Get him out of here, Donovan.”

She took his arm and lead him out. Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “I thought you were just gathering information.”

“There was an unexpected complication.” Sherlock was looking at anything but Lestrade or John.

“Well go home,” growled Lestrade. “But I want you at the station first thing in the morning for a statement.”

Sherlock gave a short nod. John trailed in his wake as they left the pub behind. “He was touching you,” Sherlock broke the icy silence.

“I’m a whore, that’s what tends to happen. And what do you care anyway, offering me up as ‘entertainment’. You wanted everyone in there to have a go at me? Bastard, you probably like watching as much as your brother.”

Turning and grabbing his shoulder, Sherlock all put tossed him against the wall. “You are not a whore,” he hissed, eyes flashing.

John met his eyes with steel in his gaze. “And yet it was your idea to play me off as one.”

“You are not a whore any more than I am a junkie. It is something in our past, but it doesn’t define who we are now.”

“Sherlock a week ago I was in a brothel. Pretty sure that makes me a whore. And what about you? I saw him give you drugs.”

“Where do you think the drugs Lestrade found came from?” Sherlock took a breath, watching him.

John felt something clutch in his heart. Before he could change his mind he leaned up and kissed him. Sherlock started to wrap his arms around him, but settled his hands on his shoulders instead and turned him so he wasn’t pinned up against the wall.

Turning them, John pushed Sherlock up against the wall instead with a hard shove, before stepping back and wiping his mouth. “Don’t you _ever_ put me in that position again.”

Sherlock ducked his head. “I won’t.”

John turned away from him. “Good. Let’s go home.”

It was Sherlock that trailed behind as they walked to the main road. The cab ride back to the flat was quiet, but not as icy as it could have been. John led the way upstairs, before heading into the kitchen and turning on the kettle. He halfway wished for something stronger than tea, but that was a bad idea.

Sherlock started running the water for the dishes. “I did not realize it would upset you so badly.”

John shook his head. “Really? You think having me smile and flirt with a stranger who recognized me from the brothel would be perfectly okay?” He stared at the kettle.

“I may have miscalculated,” admitted Sherlock.

John turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair. The water stopped and Sherlock stepped into the front room, looking uncertain as he held out a cup of tea. “John?”

Taking the mug and sipping it, John looked into the middle-distance. “And then you...why did you hit him? That couldn’t have been part of the plan.”

“I told you. He touched you.” Sherlock’s voice was tight.

It took John a few moments. He remembered the tense hand on his arm and looked up. “Hold on. You weren’t angry...you were _jealous_?”

Sherlock bit his lip. John looked heavenward a moment, put down the mug and reached for him. “You’re an idiot.”

Resting his head on John’s shoulder, Sherlock sighed. “Will you come to bed?”

“Yes. We better anyway so we can give Lestrade a statement. Though I have no idea what to tell him.”

“Problems for tomorrow,” Sherlock nuzzled his neck. John kissed his hair and led him to bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Must give thanks to feverpitchfiasco again!


	5. Chapter 5

John woke with his head on on Sherlock’s chest. There had been the start of a bad dream somewhere in the night, until warm arms had drawn him close. And despite the cock-up that was yesterday, he did feel safe here.

Smiling, he brushed a hand down Sherlock’s stomach. The moment of idyl was shattered by angry footsteps on the stairs. John sat up. Sherlock opened his eyes as Mycroft’s voice came from the front room. “Sherlock, I need to speak with you.”

The object of ire rolled his eyes before staring obstinately at the ceiling. John got up and pulled on a robe. He left the door open as he went into the front. Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, umbrella across his knees. He glared at John.

“Cuppa?” asked John, moving past him into the kitchen.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he said insincerely.

John pivoted and stalked back to him, looking down. “You are not welcome here.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you have any say in the matter.”

“On the contrary, he has every say in the matter.” Sherlock stepped into the room. “What do you want?”

“I understand you were in a drug den last night.” He fiddled with his umbrella.

“For a case, Mycroft.” Sherlock sat in the other chair. John went to turn on the kettle, listening.

“I have to be sure.”

John stepped back into the front room. “Sherlock is a damned adult. You don’t need to treat him like a child.”

Mycroft looked John up and down, making him aware he was standing in an old shirt, pants two sizes two big, a battered robe of Sherlock’s and was in dire need of a shave. But he faced the man with an unflinching gaze. After all, people had been looking down on him most of his life, it was nothing new.

Slowly the elder Holmes stood, not breaking his gaze with the smaller man. “It is every bit my business.”

“No, see, I think you’re wrong.” he shifted his stance a little.

Mycroft gave an empty smile. “You know nothing about it.”

“No see, wrong again.”

He held the umbrella in both hands and leaned into John’s space. “You’ve known my brother for a week.”

“So?” John kept his hands by his side but they balled into fists.

“Well, has he told  you about the time he was found passed out on the bank of the Thames, beaten, robbed and still high? Or maybe the time I got a call at 4:17am because he was in the hospital from a near overdose?”

“It wasn’t an overdose,” said Sherlock from his chair.

“Oh right, perhaps it was a suicide attempt,” Mycroft didn’t look at his brother as he spoke, eyes locked on Johns.

Of all the things John could have said or done, the smile he gave couldn’t have been expected. “My father broke my sister’s arm when we were nine. Now she’s an alcoholic just like him. I know exactly what it’s like when you can’t protect the people you love.”

Mycroft blinked and frowned.

“Let me get that cuppa,” said John, stepping back. “I think we could all use some tea.”

He returned in a minute to find Sherlock had shifted to straddling one of the dining chairs and leaning on the back. John passed out tea and sat in the other chair. They all drank quietly for a few minutes until Mycroft spoke. “Mrs. Hudson is correct, you do make a good cup of tea.”

John smiled. “Thank you. Perhaps there’s more than one reason Sherlock keeps me around.”

“There are a multitude of reasons why I enjoy your company, John.”

John looked at him, studying his face. Mycroft interrupted. “Perhaps I was quick to judge,” he admitted carefully.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said John with a shrug.

Sherlock put down his mug hard, rattling the side table. “Stop that.”

Both Mycroft and John looked at him. He was staring intently at John.

“Sherlock, you can’t simply fix a lifetime of hurt a few days after meeting a man,” said Mycroft, finishing his tea and setting his cup down more more gently.

John rubbed the back of his head. “Don’t think I can be ‘fixed’,” he muttered, then took a breath. “It’s like you said yesterday. You used to be a junkie, but you aren’t that any more, but it’s still part of your past. For me, the brothel, like your brother pointed out, it was a week ago.”

Sherlock scooted his chair closer and took John’s hand.

Mycroft looked at the pair. “I programmed my number in your mobile, John.” He turned to go.

”Mycroft.” John stopped him. “Thank you.”

There was a quick nod, then he was gone.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John tenderly. He tasted like the tea. “Let’s go back to bed,” he said.

“Lestrade’s going to be wanting our statements, and we still have to find the leader of this gang.”

“They can wait for the pleasures of an hour.” Sherlock’s hands slipped under the thin material of his shirt.

John moaned softly into his kiss. Sherlock pulled him to his feet and kissed him down the hall as he pushed the robe from his shoulders and tugged off his shirt, leaving a trail of clothes going towards the bed. John landed on his back and smiled up at his lover, already half-hard. “You’re incorrigible.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock planted kisses from his neck down to his belly button. John automatically started to spread his legs, but Sherlock put a hand on his hip, rubbing the bone with his thumb. “I thought perhaps you could take me this time.”

John cupped Sherlock’s face and drew him up for a deep kiss as he rolled them over. Groaning, Sherlock rocked up against his erection, while he blindly grabbed the lube from the table. John shifted to the side and ran his dry fingers around the tight muscle, making him moan and spread himself.

“You’re so beautiful,” said John, opening the lube and warming it in his hand. “I’m thick, but I’ll make sure you good and ready.“ He pushed a finger inside.

Sherlock moaned, low and deep, sending a shiver down John’s spine. He squeezed the base of his own cock. There had never been anyone that could turn him on this way. The cynical part of him wanted to figure out what it was so that he couldn’t be vulnerable to it again. The more hopeful part of him reveled in the sensation. It felt a lot like flying.

“John.” Sherlock cupped his cheek, bringing him back to the present. leaning down, he kissed him again, thrusting his finger carefully until he broke the kiss to add more lube and add a second finger. Sherlock arched against him, grabbing the headboard. “Yes, John,” he breathed.

He moved so he was between his thighs, sliding down until he was on his belly, mouthing Sherlock’s thigh as he continued working. His lover was all pale skin and long lines and absolutely gorgeous. “You’re going to look so good on my cock,” said John. Sherlock moaned louder. “Full of my cock and your legs around my hips and holding on for dear life.”

“Please,” groaned Sherlock, opening his eyes to look at him. They were dark with lust, like a lunar eclipse with just the faintest hint of light around the edges. John bit down, worrying the soft flesh in his mouth, but careful not to break the skin. Sherlock’s head dropped back against the bed as he moved his free leg a little wider.

Scissoring his fingers, John moved up to kiss his hip, feeling Sherlock’s body respond inside and out. He added a bit more lube, then adjusted his fingers, moving them around until Sherlock cried out and nearly sat up. John chuckled and pushed him back down. “You’ve got a sensitive prostate.”

“Inside me, please.” Sherlock clutched at the hand on his chest. “Need you.”

John’s heart skipped. “I need you too,” he said softly, slicking up his cock.

Sherlock pulled his hand until he moved up and kissed him, cupping his cheek. He carefully pushed against his entrance until the head popped in. Sherlock gasped and John kissed him again. “Breathe.”

He took it slowly, giving his lover time to adjust. ”So good for me,” said John, watching Sherlock’s body take his cock deeper and deeper. Finally he was fully seated.

Sherlock panted and groaned. “Full,” he whimpered.

“Too much?” asked John, smoothing his hair back.

He shook his head and wrapped his legs around John’s hips. John kissed him again and started to move.

“John,” muttered Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“I’ve got you,” John kissed him again, slowly, mindful of the split lip that was still healing. He could feel Sherlock’s cock leaking between them and wrapped his hand around it. Sherlock buried his head against his neck and made a noise somewhere between a moan and whimper.

“You’re so tight,” whispered John. “I can feel you squeezing my cock. Not going to last long with you doing that.” He started moving just a bit faster. Sherlock’s whole body shuddered. “That’s it. Come for me.”

Sherlock cried out incoherently against his shoulder as he came. John’s arm buckled as he felt him clench around his cock. “God,” he moaned as he came, landing on Sherlock’s chest. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s neck, holding him as they both rode their orgasms, hearts hammering against one another, other hand trapped between them, still holding his cock.

After a few long moments he pulled his hand free. Sherlock still had his head buried against his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?” asked John, running his sticky hand through his hair.

“Depends, is this the afterlife?” Sherlock’s words were muffled.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” John carefully pulled his softening cock out. “Come on, we both need a shower after that. We can take one together.”

“Doesn’t sound very conducive to getting clean.”

Eventually John managed to get Sherlock out of bed and into a warm shower. He made more tea while Sherlock got dressed and soon enough they were in a cab for the station. John’s mobile beeped. Wondering if maybe Mycroft had been watching after all and wanted to congratulate him, he pulled it out. He blanched instead, hand clutching the seat of the cab.

“What is it?” Sherlock’s voice was concerned.

John passed him the phone and saw his eyes flicker. “We’ll have to tell Lestrade of this.”

Nodding, John took it back. “I know.” He looked back down at the phone:

_Hope you’re well, Johnny Boy. Miss you down at Winston’s. Don’t get too comfortable there on Baker Street. See you soon. - Moran._


	6. Chapter 6

John’s breath hitched as they crossed into the station. He itched to have his gun. Instead he pushed his hands deeper in his pockets. After so long on the outskirts of society it wasn’t quite right to be around so many police. Donovan looked him over as they headed for Lestrade’s office and he turned away from her gaze, focusing on the dark coat in front of him and the confident stride. A radio squawked and he nearly stumbled, catching himself just in time.

“You all right?” asked Donovan.

“He’s fine,” said Sherlock, ushering him into the office.

It was better being in the office as Sherlock closed the door behind them. Lestrade was sipping a coffee. “Took your time coming in.” He moved the paperwork aside.

“My brother likes to meddle,” said Sherlock, taking a seat. John remained standing for the moment, shifting his feet.

“Have a seat, John,” said Lestrade. “Let’s go over last night.”

Covering the previous night didn’t take much time. “We have another problem, possibly congruent with the drug case.” He took John’s phone and placed it on Lestrade’s desk.

Lestrade read it in a moment and his dark eyes flicked up to study John’s face. “I take it you know him.”

John nodded. Below the desk, Sherlock squeezed his hand. He took a steadying breath. “I met him. In the army. He...made advances. I rejected. When I ended up where I was, he found out.”

Lestrade nodded. “You don’t need to explain further. I think perhaps you and Sherlock should step back from this case.”

“We’re quite capable of protecting each other,” said Sherlock.

He shook his head. “If this man is stalking John, I won’t risk it. Go home.”

John met Lestrade’s eyes as he stood. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” he gave a smile. Sherlock turned for the door and John hurried to keep up, glad to put the gleaming office behind them.

Once they were in the cab, Sherlock gave an address John didn’t know. He frowned and scooted towards the door. “Where are we going?”

“Lestrade had a folder open on his desk regarding the current case. I thought you might like to explore the lead before they get there and disrupt everything.”

John shoved his hands in his pockets again. Unarmed. He shivered and bit his lip, staring out the window but unseeing. He plucked his shirt away from his throat, trying to get more air in. Sherlock shifted behind him and John closed his eyes, trying to think of anything else. But he could still feel hands on him, taking, demanding. He tried to force his thoughts elsewhere but his breath was coming short, making him light headed.

Tightly squeezing his eyes, a memory filled his mind:

_Moran, on top of him, heavy hand closing his airway. “You’re mine, Johnny. You should have always been mine.” He struggled uselessly, helpless. Moran could crush his windpipe and no one would care. “That’s right. Not so important now are you? Not even a doctor. Wounded bird. Shouldn’t have turned me down before, I would have got you a nice job, you wouldn’t have been shot.” A hand squeezed his wounded shoulder and he would have screamed if there had been any air. As it was, the world was going hazy around the edges, body tingling._

_The hand left his shoulder and moved down his naked body. Something sharp cut into his skin. “Mine,” repeated Moran, the stinging pain of a knife against his hip flashing brightly._

_A moment later the hand around his throat lifted. John gasped, tugging hard on the ties binding his wrists and ankles, wanting to curl into a ball, but not allowed. Leaning down Moran licked the blood from the fresh wound. “That’ll scar up nice and pretty. You’ll remember, won’t you? Just who you belong to….”_

The cab came to an abrupt stop. Eyes flying open, John gasped for air as his door came open. Sherlock stood there with his hand out. Stomach lurching, John put his hands on the frame and pushed out under his own power, taking three steps until he could rest both hands on the brick wall, shaking.

“John.” Sherlock’s steadying voice was behind him. Swallowing hard, he focused on the sound and the stale breeze ruffling his hair. The bricks were rough and cool under his hands. “We can walk from here,” said Sherlock.

John nodded. “Okay,” he cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock said nothing, just started walking. John fell into step behind him, but frowned and stopped as the detective ducked down an alley. “Sherlock.”

Turning, Sherlock dug in his pocket and came up with the gun. “Here.” He offered it to John.

“Did you...have a loaded gun in a police station?”

“Obviously.”

Taking it and quickly tucking it in his jeans, John took a breath and followed the madman. “So are we just going to walk in and say hello, we hear you might be dealing in drugs?” he asked sarcastically.

“I suppose that depends on what we find when we arrive.”

It was a squat building, only two stories, dingy and a broken window on the second story. Sherlock and John shared a look and moved around the side, finding a back entrance. Reaching out, Sherlock tried it and found the door unlocked. He looked into John’s eyes. John nodded back.

The door eased open. The place was dim and half-filled with cubicles. John pulled the gun, feeling it’s heft in his hands. He slipped into another mindset, feeling the calm settle into his bones. Sherlock moved deeper into the building, John hyperfocused as he kept the gun pointed at the floor.

They moved down a hallway. There was light under an office door and the sound of typing. Sherlock gestured for John to stay put, put on a smile and opened the door. John stayed just out of sight, but he could see a desk and a computer. “What are you doing here?” The woman’s voice was startled.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said.

Her voice turned frosty. “I’m finishing this paperwork for Mister Danning.”

“I see. Thought no one was in today.”

“Clearly you were mistaken. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”

“Does Danning know that you’re here?”

She huffed. “Who are you?”

“Oh I‘m new, thought I’d get in a few hours.” John could hear the change in his voice to something meeker.

“Well the boss doesn’t usually like anyone working over, go home.”

“No one but you?”

“Out,” her voice was hard. “Go home.”

Sherlock stepped out and closed the door. He gestured John down and away from the door. “She doesn’t know anything useful, but it’ll go bad for her when Lestrade gets here.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what now?”

“Let’s see what’s upstairs.”

They moved past the empty cubicles and up the stairs. The second story was a maze of winding hallways. Sherlock looked up and down the halls, then back at John. “Perhaps we should split up and search, if you will be okay.”

John met his eyes. “Of course I’ll be fine. What exactly am I looking for?”

“Evidence, John. If this place is being used by the drug ring, there may be some files. Even international drug rings must have paperwork.”

Rolling his eyes, John tucked the gun back in his jeans and walked away. He picked a door at random and found a plain office. He frowned as he noticed it was empty, nothing in it to show it actually belonged to a person. He checked the filing cabinet anyway and found it empty. The next three offices were the same.

He stepped into the hall again and noticed Sherlock was out of sight. Something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He looked around as he pulled the gun out again. “Sherlock?”

There was no answer. He moved cautiously down the hall, gun at the ready. Suddenly a door opened behind him. Turning, something pinched at the base of his neck. The gun dropped from his hand as his body stopped obeying him. He fought against the darkness as he stumbled against the opposite wall, eyes widening in recognition a moment before the darkness claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to parapraxis for getting me through the block I was having about this chapter


	7. Chapter 7

John woke with a start. His first thought was: _at least I’m still dressed_. The second thought was a realization that his left hand was cuffed to a pipe. He struggled to his feet, taking in the cold basement. He was in a tiny concrete cell of a room with a metal door.

Panic creeped at the edges of his mind. He took a deep breath, then another one. Sherlock would notice he was missing. Sherlock would find him. Unconsciously he rubbed his thumb against his hip, imagining the scar underneath the jeans.

There was the clang and screech of a bolt in the metal door. John backed up as it opened and revealed a man just a bit taller than himself, but more muscular, with dark hair and cold eyes. He looked away and raised his hand defensively. “Don’t...don’t touch me.”

Moran smiled and crossed his arms. It did nothing to warm the chill in his face. “What’s the matter, Johnny? Aren’t you happy to see me?” John could feel him undressing him with his eyes.

“I never wanted to see you again.”

In two strides Moran grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind him back, shoving him up against the concrete wall as he pressed up against him. “I told you a long time back that you were mine, Johnny,” he growled in his ear.

John panted with fear. Moran’s thumb dipped into his jeans and rubbed the scar. John whimpered, closing his eyes and feeling the man’s erection pressing against him through their clothes.

“What do you think you’re doing, quitting the brothel and going off with someone else. What kind of idiot would want you anyway, besides me?”

John’s eyes snapped open. “You don’t know anything about Sherlock,” he snarled, grabbing onto the anger.

“Oh I know plenty. Got a friend who’s very interested in the so-called detective. And I can tell you one thing. He doesn’t have friends.”

Moran leaned back, just a hair. It was enough. John twisted in his grip, turning and bring up a knee to his groin. Moran grunted and doubled over. John brought his elbow down on the back of Moran’s head, sending him to the floor.

With a grunt, Moran grabbed his ankle. John cried out as he fell, handcuff catching on a bend in the pipe. Moran got to his knees and grabbed the front of John’s shirt, punching him hard. John heard the bones crunch as his nose broke and sagged against the wall.

“You whore,” growled Moran. “Look what you made me do.” He touched John’s cheek.

John jerked away, eyes struggling to focus on Moran.

“I see you there, Johnny boy. You and those big pretty blue eyes.” There was a noise from somewhere above them. “You sit tight.”

John sat helplessly against the wall, pain radiating down his arm and his face throbbing. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his free arm around them. The blood ran down his face and dripped onto his shirt. He could taste the copper. He glanced down and thought about the way he was ruining this shirt. It was one Sherlock had given him, of course. He closed his eyes. Maybe this was better, maybe Moran was right. Sherlock didn’t really want him.  He was, after all, just a whore. And now a whore with a broken nose.

Loud footsteps came back down the hall. John looked up and saw Moran standing with a needle in his hand. “Looks like your latest shag is here. Have to keep you quiet, I’m not dragging you out of here quite yet. We have so much to catch up on.”

He grabbed John’s hair and held him in place as he jabbed the needle into the junction of neck and shoulder. Leaning, down, he whispered in his ear. “I’ll be back for you.”

John sagged as the drug took hold. He could hear noises from far away that sounded vaguely like his name. It reminded him of the battlefield and his soldiers screaming for him. He could taste the fear and adrenaline and blood on his tongue, smell the desert air. Isn’t that where it always led? Right back here to this field. And men shouting and the bullets and the pain radiating down his arm.

“Doc.” John turned his head and saw Adams, one of the men who’d been by his side that day.

“You’re dead,” pointed out John.

Adams shrugged. “Couldn’t save everyone, Doc. Isn’t that how you got shot?”

John remembered. There was a kid, so new he wasn’t even sure of his name. But he hadn’t hesitated to crawl to him when he’d fallen, screaming. This battle was bad. Quite possibly they’d all be killed. He could hear someone screaming into a radio for backup. “Hold on,” he’d said, leaning over the kid, seeing where the bullet had gone between the body armor. “Not that bad, might even get to go home for a bit.” It was a lie, of course, but the kid just stared up at him as his life seeped away.

“Watson!” Someone else called for him. He raised his head and lifted up at the same time. The bullet tore into his shoulder, knocking him onto his back with a grunt. Oddly enough it wasn’t the bullet wound that got his attention first, but the weight of his body armor pressing down, restricting his breathing.

He moved to get up, only to find his arm wasn’t working. Oh, right, he was shot. John looked over to see his arm laying useless against the ground. His kit was gone out of reach, but he pulled a rag out of his pocket and made a vain effort to stop the bleeding…

“John!” There was a hand on his arm.

Blinking, John looked up, but the face was shifting, unclear. He tried to push the hand away. There was a bit of pressure, then his left arm came down so gently someone must be helping him. There were other voices, concern and now he felt six years old again and in hospital after he’d fallen down the stairs and sprained his ankle, only he didn’t actually fall down the stairs so much as Dad had thrown him across the room, but you musn’t say those sort of things so he told the nice doctors he fell and they all believed him except there was that one that asked him when they were alone if he _really_ fell down the stairs and John had nodded, but he’d also thought that if he could be a nice doctor like that one then maybe it wouldn’t matter that he had a Dad that left marks so Mum dressed him and Harry in jumpers all the time.

Someone scooped him up in their arms, mindful to keep his head up as more blood seeped out. Safe. This was safe. He rested his head against the person’s chest, hearing his deep voice angrily demanding he go in the ambulance as well. John smiled before passing out.

**

When John woke again, he found himself sitting up in his chair at Baker Street. He could feel his nose still throbbing, but the pain had lessened. His left arm ached, fingers tingling. Sherlock stepped into his line of sight, concern written on every line of his face. He had a mug and brought it John’s lips. He tried to take it from him, but his arms were still leaden, so he let Sherlock help him sip the tea.

The warm drink and the worry in his lover’s eyes lent him strength. “You rescued me,” he told Sherlock when he took the mug away and retreated to the other chair.

“Obviously,” Sherlock watched him.

“My kidnapper?”

“There was no sign of him. Lestrade is working on it.” His tone said exactly what he thought of that.

John gave a weak smile. “He’s a good cop. They’re good people.”

Sherlock pulled his chair closer so they were touching knees. “It’s my fault,” he said softly, hands in his lap.

John looked up at his pale eyes. “That I was taken?”

He nodded, worrying his bottom lip.

“Sherlock, you saved me.”

“Moran, though…”

John put a finger across Sherlock’s lips to stop him speaking.  “Don’t say his name, not here.”

Sherlock took his hand and kissed the palm. “The scar on your hip. It’s from him, isn’t it?”

John swallowed and nodded. “Of course you noticed it.” He shifted and took his hand back, looking away.  “Nothing but damaged goods.”

Warm arms pulled him into Sherlock’s lap. He kissed his hair. “You are John H. Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You’re a doctor and a soldier and a… friend. You are not, by any definition, ‘damaged goods.’”

Tears threatened in John’s eyes. Sherlock leaned in and carefully kissed him. “We will find him, and he will not harm you again. I swear it.”

There was steel in his voice. For the first time in a long time, John was starting to believe.


	8. Chapter 8

John fell asleep that night sitting on the couch, leaning against Sherlock with his arms holding him securely. When he woke the swelling had gone down some and Sherlock was puttering around the kitchen making breakfast. John smiled and went to make tea, only to have Sherlock steer him back to the table and hand him an ice pack for his nose.

He tested his shoulder as Sherlock went back to work. It was sore, but at least not dislocated. He got up and went to the mirror over the mantle. There were a few scrapes from having his face shoved against the wall, but he'd be just about healed up in a week.

“John, you should rest.” Sherlock put down a plate and mug of tea before pulling out his chair.

“Thank you,” John took the seat and thought it might be nice to be taken care of for once.

By the next day though he was already starting to get restless. “It’s a broken nose, I’ve had worse,” John assured him, “and I can get my own ice packs, thank you.”

Sherlock fluttered around him as he settled on the couch. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“I was a doctor, as you like to point out. Go work on your experiment.”

Sherlock paced a few more moments as John flipped on the telly. Sherlock futzed in the kitchen for a few minutes, then came back out again. “I’m going to get a few things….will you be okay here by yourself?”

John gave him a look. “Quite.”

The detective swallowed and nodded, pulling on his scarf and coat. As he heard the door close downstairs Mrs. Hudson came in. “Sherlock said you’d like some sandwiches.”

He resisted rolling his eyes. “That sounds lovely Mrs. Hudson, have you seen this one?”

Within fifteen minutes Sherlock was back. Mrs. Hudson made excuses while Sherlock brought him another cup of tea and a fresh ice pack.

John bit his lip, not wanting to come across as ungrateful. Sherlock sat down on the other end of the couch with his laptop. John flipped the channel to a football game and turned up the volume, trying to pretend there wasn’t any weight on the other end of the sofa.

After a day of flipping around the telly, John finally decided to at least try to sleep. His body was still trying to get rid of the last effects of the drugs. He went to get settled in the chair to sleep.

“Don’t want to come into the bedroom?” Of course Sherlock was standing a foot away, watching him.

“It’ll be better for the nose if I sleep sitting up. Go on.”

There was hesitation, but Sherlock did finally slink off to the bedroom. John pulled out the phone and texted Greg.

_Any leads? -JW_

_Nothing yet, sorry. How are you doing? - GL_

_Better. We should have a pint later this week. -JW_

_I’ll try to make time. -GL_

The next two days weren’t any better. John started to feel like he couldn’t take a piss without the man hovering just outside the door. At least the swelling was going down. That night he went to climb into bed with Sherlock and he sat up. “Is that wise?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it.

John stared at him a moment, then went back out to the front room, grabbed his blanket and stretched out on the couch.

After a few minutes, Sherlock came back out. “I am sorry. I just wish to make sure you’re getting better.”.

“Not made of glass, thank you. Go to bed, I’ll be fine out here.”

Instead, Sherlock picked up his violin and started playing. John wanted to be at least annoyed, but the soft strains soon put him fast asleep.

The next morning he woke to Sherlock asleep in his chair. He rolled his eyes and got up to fix breakfast and put on the kettle. Opening the pantry he saw they were running low on a few things. Sherlock came in as the eggs finished. He moved to make the tea, but John grabbed the kettle from him. "I can do it," said John shortly.

Sherlock met his eyes and grabbed plates instead. John served out the food and sat across from him. He only barely curved an arm around his plate as he ate fast, trying to ignore the way Sherlock was watching him. He bolted his tea and stood, grabbing his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock got to his feet as well.

"Running low on a few things. I can do the shopping. Give me your card?"

"I'll go with you." Sherlock picked up his scarf.

"No, Sherlock. I am quite capable of going to the store." He set his stance as if readying for a fight.

"But Moran is out there. And you're still injured..."

"Sherlock!" John threw down his jacket.

The man retreated to the far side of the room, watching. John glared. The door to the street opened and Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs. "You two have barely been out," she said as she came in, ignoring the tension. "I picked up some shopping."

John put on a smile. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

She went to put things away. Sherlock looked at him, then went into the kitchen. John huffed out a breath, pulled the mobile out of his jacket, and perched on the edge of his chair.

_Pint? - JW_

_It's not even 10:30 - GL_

_Sherlock - JW_

_Tonight - GL_

_Thank you - JW_

John put the phone down and ran his hands through his hair. He should be able to last the day. Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile on her way out, closing the door behind her. Sherlock uncertainly stepped out of the kitchen, looking at John. Moving to the sofa, John patted the seat next to him.

Sherlock sat, hands nervously twisting in his lap. John cupped the back of his neck and drew him down into a kiss. Maybe he could show his gratitude for what he was trying to do. Sherlock moaned softly as he expertly opened his mouth.

Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, looking at the fading bruises. Swallowing, he stood and fled to the bedroom, closing the door.

John stared at the door. He counted to ten before getting to his feet and slowly walking down the hall, lead in his gut.

Opening the door revealed his fear and his expectation. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, wanking, staring down at the floor.

"What are you doing?" John's voice was as cold and flat as an ice-covered pond.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Obvious."

John closed his eyes. "Why? I'm right here."

"You're injured."

"I told you, I'm not fragile." His voice started to rise. "I've done my job in worse shape than this."

"It's not your job." Sherlock's hand stopped as he looked up at him.

John laughed bitterly. "How else am I supposed to pay you for all this?"

Sherlock stood, tucking himself away. "It's a gift, then."

"A gift? Am I your kept _boy_ then?"

"John..." Sherlock moved towards him.

John stepped back. "I _earn_ my keep."

He could see words churning in Sherlock's mind, looking for the right thing to say. Instead he reached for him.

"Don't touch me," growled John. He turned on his heel, grabbed his jacket and took off down the stairs.

The breeze blew through his hair and the thin material of his jacket as he hurried down the street, head ducked down. The jacket was his. Everything else Sherlock had given him.

Someone bumped his elbow. John looked up and frowned. He pulled his jacket a little closer. Maybe he should go back and talk to him. Sherlock meant well, he was just shit with people. Including himself sometimes. Blinking he saw a man with a newspaper. He looked familiar. John stepped back, and turned to hurry down another way.

There was another man he recognized, but looking away. Steadying himself, John slipped up behind him, grabbed him and pulled him into the alley. The man turned and he recognized him. He’d been with Mycroft. He shoved him against the wall, arm against his throat. “You’re Mycroft’s man.”

“You are clever, aren’t you Doctor Watson?”

John shoved him harder against the wall and yanked the earpiece from his head. “Leave me alone,” he yelled into it. “I’m not a plaything for you Holmses. I’m done. You hear me? I’m done.”


	9. Chapter 9

By that evening he was back in the seedy part of London. He wouldn’t go back to Winston’s, but a blow job might get him a place for the night, or at least a little cash. He could figure out his next move in the morning. The chill was making his nose start to run and he wiped his sleeve across his nose. It smelled like Baker Street and he closed his eyes. He was running away, that was the truth of the matter. But he was just a whore, Sherlock was trying to make him into something he wasn’t anymore.

John ducked into an alley. Someone was shooting up near the dumpster. The woman closed her eyes and relaxed as the drugs took hold. John shivered. Sherlock had been like that once. He thought of the pale eyes and shook his head, leaning against the bricks. He knew the man meant well. Vaguely, he remembered feeling safe in his arms.

But what could he do? John ran a hand through his hair. He turned away from the addict and stuffed his hands in his pockets. No one would hire him as a doctor; even without his injury he had a year with no job history. Another veteran, fallen through the cracks. With a sigh he leaned against the wall.

“Hey, you’re one of Winston’s aren’t you?” A vaguely familiar man stopped next to him.

“Gone freelance,” John put on his smile. “Looking for a good time?”

“I dunno. Yer damaged,” He touched John’s cheek.

John swallowed his response. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go solo. Can still take care of what you need.”

“Better get a discount.” He grabbed John’s crotch. “Least you got plenty to work with.”

John dug his nails into his palms, keeping the smile in place. “You got a car or something?”

The guy grabbed his hair. “Alley’s good enough for you.”

John winced as he yanked, fighting back panic. Suddenly the man gave a cry and crumpled. Mycroft dusted his suit off, subtly kicking the incapacitated man in the ribs. “Do get in the car, Doctor Watson.”

John looked up at the elder Holmes. “I’m done with all of you. Not for all the money in the world.”

Mycroft gave a long suffering sigh. “I have no desire to, as you say, shag, my brother’s boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” John gave a bitter laugh. “Not hardly.”

“Please, get in the car. You will wish to hear this.”

John could see the weariness on his face. Well it had to be better than being buggered in an alley. “Fine.” He slid in to the open door and across to the opposite seat, putting one hand on the door handle. “Say your piece. And stop calling me doctor.”

“But you are still a doctor. Your license is still valid.” Mycroft closed the door and John shivered.

“How? Oh never mind. Just tell me what you couldn’t say on the street.”

Mycroft pulled his phone from inside his suit coat. “I can count on one hand the number of times my brother has called me for help.”

John let go of the door and crossed his arms. Mycroft looked at him and pressed a button.

“Mycroft, I need help.” Sherlock’s voice was panicked. “John’s gone. I….I made an error, probably several. I have my network looking for him, but I know you have eyes everywhere. Please, he’s...I need him back Mycroft. I need him.”

Mycroft looked away as he tucked the phone back into his pocket.

John took a breath, then another. “He’s suffocating me.”

“Matters of the heart have never been my brother’s strong suit.”

John looked at his hands. “He shouldn’t love me,” he said softly.

“That is between you and him. I doubt any of us can choose the person or the moment. You make my brother a better man, John.”

“He believes in me, the idiot.”

“If you truly wish to never see him again, I can arrange it. However, I do hope you’d rather return to Baker Street.”

John glanced out the window. He thought about Sherlock, and also Greg and Mrs. Hudson and even Donovan. Sherlock would have to learn how to back the hell off, but that was a far better life than this one. Maybe it was worth fighting for. “Take me home, Mycroft.”

The ride was silent. John looked back at Mycroft as they pulled up. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded. “You still have my number. Next time, use it.”

John got out and looked at the door. Taking another breath he opened the door and climbed the stairs. The whole place was dark. Probably Sherlock was out looking for him. He felt guilt and shook his head. No, that wouldn’t help anyone. He pushed open the door to the flat and turned on the light. Everything was just as he left it, except his mobile wasn’t on the side table.

Closing the door behind him, John shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up. He rubbed his shoulder and glanced in the mirror before heading down the hall. It had been a long day and he’d walked quite a ways, maybe if he took a nap by the time he woke up Sherlock would be back.

He pushed open the bedroom door. Something reflected in the window and he turned just as the gun came up, pointed at his face. “Hello Johnny Boy.”

John swallowed and raised his hands. “If you hurt him…”

“Oh relax, he and your landlady are out looking for your pretty little arse.” Moran licked his lips. “I should make you strip and leave you where he can find you.”

“You’re a coward, Moran,” growled John. “You drugged me and ran off.”

“Oh, you mean like you ran off after your little spat?”

John glanced around for a camera.

“I’ve been watching you very closely. I don’t like other people playing with my things.” Moran’s hand was steady.

“I am not your plaything.” John stepped towards him.

Moran cocked the gun.

John smiled and moved closer, forcing the gun against his forehead and meeting his dark eyes. “Go on. You want to take me to hell with you? Pull the trigger.”

The silence stretched out between them, neither of them blinking. John flexed his hands by his side, breath steady despite the cold steel against his skin. Moran squinted. John raised his head just a bit. Moran’s finger started to move at the same time as John shoved the gun up and threw his head forward. There was the crunch of nose meeting forehead. He twisted the gun away as Moran stumbled and fell back.

“On your knees.”

Moran wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and knelt. “Going to shoot me, John Watson?”

“Hands on the back of  your head.”

He obeyed. “Only fair, I suppose. Eye for an eye. Or a nose for a nose.”

“Shut up Moran,” John kept his gun at him as he moved around the bedroom.

“Why, are you going to shoot me dead?”

“Too easy. Oh no, not for you.” He found what he was looking for and moved back towards Moran. “Think I’d rather let you slowly bleed to death. I’m a doctor, I do know how. Fortunately, well, I’m not you. On your belly.”

Moran hesitated. John kicked him and pulled his arms back, cuffing him and hauling him to his feet. “We’re going to wait for my friends.”

“Friends? The whore thinks he has friends?”

John shoved him into the wall, leaving a bit of blood on the wallpaper. “I do. More than that, I’ve got someone who actually gives two shits about me.”

“He’ll never make you feel the way I do.”

“You mean bleed me and scar me? Or inject me with drugs? Or treat me like trash? He may have attempted to smother me the last few days but it’s because the daft bastard actually loves me.”

Moran looked at him and laughed. John dragged him down the hall and pushed him to his knees again in front of the chair. “You actually believe that? Has he told you?”

“Some things you don’t have to say with words.” John kept the gun close at hand. “Now, am I going to have to stuff a sock in your mouth? I know how kinky you can get.”

Moran smiled. “Still just a whore.”

“Not any more.”

There was the sound of a door opening. John pointed the gun at Moran.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice and his footsteps raced up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway and stared.

A second voice just behind him, Lestrade: “Are those my handcuffs?”


	10. Chapter 10

"Probably. Everything is fine," said John steadily.

Lestrade hurried forward to take Moran into custody, tucking his phone against his ear as he called for a car. He looked at John and Sherlock. "I'll take him downstairs. You come in soon and give a statement, John."

"I will," he answered, looking at Sherlock.

Lestrade smiled and hauled Moran down the stairs. John put the gun on the coffee table.

Sherlock bit his lip. "Mycroft messaged me when he realized I was not at home."

"Yeah, he came and found me. He...played me your message."

Sherlock looked down. "It was not my intention to drive you off. I was worried..."

John crossed the room and cupped his cheek. "I love you too."

Sherlock searched his eyes before leaning down to kiss him cautiously. John grabbed his arms and kissed him hard, for once not trying to be professional, but laying himself bare and offering himself up as the world turned around them.

When they finally came up for air, Sherlock ran his thumb along John's cheek. "I never want to lose you again. What do I have to do?"

"Just let me breathe," said John. "I can take care of myself."

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft has a job if you want it. A clinic."

"That would be good. I just need space sometimes. It doesn't mean I don't want you. I can still help on your cases."

Sherlock's gaze was steady. "I want to give you whatever you need."

John leaned up to kiss him again. "Right now I just need you."

Sherlock gathered him in his arms and kissed him with passion that stole his breath. He pulled back and looked at John with those beautiful eyes. "I am an idiot."

“In most matters you’re brilliant.” John smiled and took his hand, leading him to the bedroom. He saw Sherlock's eyes flicker over the blood on the wall and floor. He look back at John. "Did he...?"

"Surprised me, held a gun to my head. It's not my blood."

Sherlock nodded and took off his coat and scarf. John moved to him again, unbuttoning his lover’s shirt. Sherlock tugged at the hem of his jumper until he relented and pulled it over his head. Looking down at John, Sherlock ran his hands down his bare arms as if memorizing the skin and cataloguing every fading bruise and scar. He leaned in and kissed the starburst scar on his shoulder. “This doesn’t define you,” he said softly.

Shivering, John knew what was coming as he opened his jeans and went to his knees, carefully pushing down his pants.. He kissed the small scar above his pelvic bone. “This doesn’t define you either.”

John ran a hand through the riot of curls. “I want you to make love to me.”

Sherlock stopped and looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

He smiled. “You aren’t him. You aren’t any of them. You’re the man I love and I want to give myself to you freely.” He took a breath. “Without obligation.”

Sherlock stood and kissed him, sloppy and wet and imperfect. Pulling away, he looked into John’s eyes. “I do love you.” The words came off his tongue as if tasting them, trying them out. “I love you,” he repeated.

John leaned up and kissed him chastely before kicking off his bottoms and climbing into the bed. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand and offered it to him. “I love you too.”

Shedding the rest of his clothes, Sherlock crawled after John, kissing his calf, his knee and the beading drop of precum on the head of his cock. As John shivered he took the lube from him and warmed it in his hands. Sherlock parted his thighs and stroked his entrance.

John arched under the touch and lay back. He ran his hands down his chest and stomach before taking his cock in hand. Sherlock pressed a finger inside. John squeezed his cock and closed his eyes, concentrating on feeling his lover’s breath ghosting hotly against his skin. Sherlock’s finger brushed his prostate, making him groan and his cock twitch in his hands.

“You are amazing,” said Sherlock, voice rough and deep with lust. He added another finger. “You are like… steel and silk. A conductor of light. A warm fire on a cold winter’s night.” The words faltered and John opened his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” he said softly, half sitting up so he could reach down and wipe an escaped tear away with his thumb.

Sherlock slid up and kissed him onto his back, tongues sliding slowly together. John’s legs wrapped around his hips as he pressed in, making them both groan. John took Sherlock’s face in both hands, staring into his eyes as he moved deeper, starting to thrust.

John’s head fell back, eyes closing again as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Harder.”

Moving faster, driving John into the bed, Sherlock shifted the angle and John cried out as he started striking the prostate. His body was flush, cock dragging against Sherlock’s stomach, the sensation of being filled over and over...John was helpless, but this felt like safety, not fear.

Sherlock’s panting breath told him he wouldn’t last long. Delicate fingers curled around John’s cock, pulling him closer and closer to the edge, pleasure inside and out. He’d almost forgotten it could feel so good.

“John,” Sherlock moaned his name as he came, hips stuttering. John’s own cry was wordless as he followed him over, clinging on for dear life. Sherlock buried his head against John’s shoulder, holding on just as tightly.

“I’m here,” panted John. “I’m here,”

**

The flat seemed brighter as John woke the next morning with Sherlock tangled up in his arms. He smiled and kissed the top of his head before slipping out of bed. He took a deep breath and threw on a robe before heading out the kitchen and turning the kettle on. He needed a shower, but wanted tea and breakfast first.

He was almost finished when Sherlock came out, looking a bit cautious, as if half-expecting John to have vanished. Leaning up, John kissed him gently and handed him his plate. They ate quietly at the table, Sherlock looking at his laptop and John reading the newspaper.

After breakfast and a quick shower ( _alone, Sherlock_ , he’d said firmly and he’d listened), they went out to do some shopping. First stop was the grocery for tea. John carefully looked at the prices. “So what’s this job Mycroft has?”

“A small local clinic. They’ve been told you were doing some government work the past year.”

John laughed shortly. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

Sherlock picked up their usual brand of tea over John’s protests about the price. “I’ll get the tea, but i have this for you as well.” He handed him a debit card with his name on it. “Your own bank account, Mycroft just put some money in there. When you start your job of course your paychecks will go in. And he told me to tell you it was a gift and you’re not to pay it back.”

John shook his head. “He’s not so bad. Tell him it’s the last gift I expect from him though, unless it’s my birthday or something.”

“I will.” John stopped at an ATM to check the balance. He wanted to argue when he saw the balance, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. No doubt it was an apology as well as a gift. “I saw a sale on jumpers. Tell me more about this clinic.”

They walked to the clothing store while he listened. He carefully picked out a few cheap jumpers and some other clothes he’d need for seeing patients. Just because he suddenly had a bit of money didn’t mean he needed to spend it all.

“This tie sets off your eyes,” said Sherlock, holding one up. He hesitated. “May I buy it for you?”

John looked at him, then the tie. He nodded and gathered the other clothes he’d picked out to take to the register. _Give and take_ , he reminded himself.

After clothes they went to a bookshop Sherlock liked to frequent. While the detective vanished into the stacks, John found the reference section and picked up a few medical books, since his own were long gone.

“Are you a doctor?” asked a young woman stocking shelves nearby.

“Ah, yes.” John tried to resist fidgeting. “I lost my books when, uh, well when I moved recently.”

“Which ones do you need? I had some movers lose a box of my mum’s things last time I moved and they weren’t as easily replaced as books.”

John pulled out a few and showed her, making sure he only pulled cheaper editions. At least the human body didn’t change much between versions.

“Let me talk to my manager, maybe we can get you a discount.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

She smiled. “I don’t mind. Where are you practicing?”

He told her where. “I start in a couple days.”

She gathered the books he’d picked up. “Well I know where I’m going Doctor…”

“Watson. John Watson.”

With a warm smile she turned away and headed for the front desk. Sherlock appeared at his elbow as if on cue. “She was flirting with you.”

John blinked and looked up at him. “Was she? I’m out of practice. On being the receiving end.”

“You’ll find her phone number inside the cover of Gray’s Anatomy. Which I do have a copy of.”

“Rather have my own. And I suppose we’ll see. They did used to call me ‘Three Continents Watson’ back in the army.”

“Europe, Asia and that brief trip to South America when you were in university.”

John shook his head. “Let’s just go.”

They had lunch at a little place and John checked the book. Sure enough, there was her name and phone number. He sent her a text that he was flattered, but he already had a boyfriend. Sherlock was evidently reading his phone upside down. “Boyfriend? Is that what we are? Sounds juvenile.”

John shrugged. “Whatever we are, I’m with you. And that makes me happy.” He met his eyes. “I’m safe with you.”

Sherlock reached over and squeezed his hand. “And I with you.”

**

Two days later John nervously adjusted his new tie in the mirror. Again.

Sherlock came up behind him and kissed his cheek. "You are a more than competent doctor. You will do fine."

"Just been a while since I was in an office.” John put his hands down and sighed. Sherlock fixed his tie and met his eyes in the mirror before turning away. His mobile chirped and he pulled it out. John saw his eyes go cold.

“What is it?”

“Someone posted Moran’s bail.”

John’s heart clenched and he put a hand on the mantle to steady himself. Sherlock put a hand on the small of his back. “Do you want to stay in today?”

Giving him a look, John shook his head. “That man is not defining my life. I have a job to go to and I am going."

Sherlock looked nearly ready to protest. Instead he leaned down and kissed him. “I understand. I’ll be here when you get home. Text me when you get to work?”

“I will. Thank you.” John gave him a smile that didn’t meet his eyes, grabbed his jacket and bag and headed out.

Once he was safely gone, Sherlock took out his phone again and sent a message to Mycroft. _Find Moran_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to feverpitchfiasco, letalkingmime, parapraxis and shellybees for support, reading and cheering me on.
> 
> And all of you for reading and commenting!
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


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